


Elicio

by amorphous_shadow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Dominance, Elicio - (Latin) to entice out; to draw down, Evil Voldemort, Horcruxes, Light Harry, M/M, Mental Coercion, Non-con Behaviour, Parseltongue, Parseltongue Kink, Plot Twists, Possessive Voldemort, Set during Dealthy Hallows, Submissive Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9946118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorphous_shadow/pseuds/amorphous_shadow
Summary: “Come…”There it was again, sibilance soothing over his skin and drawing a sense of serenity out of him like he hadn’t felt in months. It felt right, to hear it, the soft sigh of sound wrapping him in delightful, wonderful feeling.“Come now, let us be complete…”





	

                                                                         

That night, the connection between their minds was… different.

For a long while, Harry’s days had been pierced with stabs of twisted, fiery wrath; the sensation blotting out his thoughts and taking his breath away every time they arose. In these moments he was mindful that he should be practicing Occlumency, should be learning to shut it all out, but more often than not he was carried away with the sensation; he let it consume him until he found himself gazing out of his enemy’s eyes.

He told himself that he was being _useful_ , that is was imperative to their success to give into the connection, to pick up clues. But he knew that Hermione was right; the connection worked both ways, and one day soon Voldemort would again use it to his advantage.

Truthfully, he was just weak.

The tumultuous, vindictive emotions trickled through his head and down his spine like hot lava; they made him feel _alive._ Days and days camping out across Britain’s dreary landscape, with only Hermione’s maudlin sobbing and prolonged silences for company was enough to purge anyone of feeling; with Ron gone, the atmosphere was frightfully bleak.

Voldemort’s anger was like a prickly, adrenaline-fueled high, coming in bursts and lifting the apathy that clung to him like a wet cloak. When it came, it gave Harry a new thing to hope for, to live for; it spurred him on and grounded him.

The more it happened, the more desperately unhinged his enemy became, the happier Harry was in those crazed, furious moments.

But tonight, it was different. The connection had been quiet, but it felt like a living thing buzzing lowly between their minds; the first time Harry had ever felt it like something tangible in his head. Harry scrubbed his calloused fingers over his lightning bolt scar discontentedly, staring vacantly ahead out of the canopy of the tent and onto a still, stagnant wood.

He was on watch duty tonight. He could hear Hermione’s soft, murmured breaths as she slept curled into herself, and he turned to see her clutching at the blankets on top of Ron’s empty bed, looking distraught even in sleep.

Slytherin’s locket lay by her fist. It was his turn to wear it, but he hadn’t had the courage to put it on yet; it was a tasking, thankless job and Harry needed a break from it.

He sighed hugely and hugged his knees to his chest, tapping Hermione’s wand unthinkingly against his jean-clad shin.

It was going to be a long night. 

                                                                            

About an hour into the night, on the precipice of dawn, a sudden, disconcerting pulse of _pleasant_ surprise radiated outward from their connection.

Harry dropped Hermione's wand in astonishment where it had been hanging loosely in his fist, his breath stuttering out unsteadily through his nose.

That was _definitely_ different.

Harry felt his breathing hitch on another agitated breath, and he looked back worriedly at the sleeping form of Hermione, internally debating whether he should wake her for this.

She would know what to do. She _always did._

But the feeling built, gaining traction in his head, caressing fingers sinking into the folds of his mind. Harry’s body decided for him in the next moment and he stood unsteadily, stumbling forward on shaking legs, the wand left forgotten in the mouth of the tent.

He glanced back on on of his best friends and firmly, albeit anxiously decided that there was no need to worry Hermione any more than he needed to, not after everything.

He could handle this. Whatever _this_ was. She needed to rest. 

The  _ecstatic_ feeling was building still, filling Harry's mind like a noxious gas. He came to a stop and leaned on the nearest tree in the gloom, trying to breathe by pulling the cold air into his lungs in large gulps.

He tried ground himself by clutching at his ruffled black hair in shaking hands.

This was new. This had never happened before. Whenever Voldemort felt anything, it was always tinted with a liberal helping of _murderous_ , his glee and anger one and the same when reverberating through Harry’s scar as searing agony. But this feeling was… soft, forgiving, and so unlike the enemy he had come to know that it changed the rules; Harry was more afraid of this than the prospect of witnessing another terrible atrocity.

Another pulse of w _armth_ seared Harry’s brain, the sensation creeping into his bones. He could feel it more clearly now; Voldemort was surprised, but it was wrapped in contentment and a sense of _completion._ Like the man ( _serpent, monster, murderer_ ) had discovered something so perfect, so fulfilling, that it encouraged some feeling much closer to humanity than Voldemort had any right to.

Harry settled back on his haunches against the tree and dropped his still-shaking hands from his hair, the strands bouncing back stubbornly and looking more in disarray now than they ever did.

And then he heard it.

A delightful, beautiful murmuring _hiss_ sounding out from all around him; from inside him. A shiver wracked all the way down to Harry’s toes and his throat constricted at the sound of it, large green eyes widening behind round spectacles in the darkness. He swayed a little where he crouched, very suddenly feeling himself waver from panicked to… content.

_“Come…”_

There it was again, sibilance soothing over his skin and drawing a sense of serenity out of him like he hadn’t felt in months. It felt right, to hear it, the soft sigh of sound wrapping him in delightful, wonderful _feeling._

_“Come now, let us be complete…”_

A distant corner of Harry’s mind was screaming, protesting, trying to wrestle control away from this alluring, seductive entity. But it was winning, this great, wholesome, _addictive_ sensation, and Harry couldn’t care less for the part of himself that was rebelling.

He pushed those disconcerting thoughts away impatiently and without care.

_“Come, Harry…”_

And Harry mentally bowed to the siren’s song, submitting to its call, slowly rising from his haunches and onto his feet. He had stopped shaking and felt lighter than air, breath coming easily from his chest as he stepped a little way into the all-encompassing gloom.

It felt natural to slip into snake tongue, like it was a language he spoke every day; the familiarity of it was jarring, but soon forgotten under the power of the sensations caressing his mind.

 _“Where?”_ Harry asked the darkness, the hiss floating away softly on the night air. He began moving forward, heedless of direction, his eyes intent. A low, sinister chuckle ricocheted through his skull at this, sending a shock of gooseflesh up the back of his neck and down his exposed forearms.

The part of himself that Harry had stomped into submission flared up again, begging in a forgotten corner of his psyche, and for the first time since he had entered this trance-like state, Harry felt panic begin to manifest once again.

He stumbled to a stop on his journey through the dead, grey forest.

_“A little further, Harry. Come now, we mustn’t dawdle…”_

And just as quickly as it had arisen, the alarm bells sounding in his head muffled, the wonderful, seductive hissing filling his conscious with a blank, single-minded state of calm. He set off again, gnarled branches catching on his jumper and pulling at his hair; but he was like something without thought, the impulse to just _walk_ driving him on.

Hisses like sweet caresses accompanied him through the shadows, sometimes without meaning and other times laden with delighted encouragement.

_“Yesssss Harry, a little further…”_

_“You’re doing so well... Come, let us be reunited…”_

_“A delightful creature you are, Harry…”_

_“Come to me. Yesssss…”_

Harry continued on like this for a while; he wasn’t sure how long it had been, how long he had been lost in the sibilant hisses sliding through his nerves, across his skin.

A sudden, aching-tingle shot from the base of his skull and down his back as he rounded a gaunt tree, and he found himself stopping as though someone had instructed him to do so. The tingling continued down the backs of his legs and away like a slosh of ice-cold water, leaving him oddly bereft at the edge of the forest.

Harry’s mind vaguely and quietly recognised the feeling as similar to walking through a series of protective wards.

_“Now, my precious child, you must wait…”_

_“Wait here?”_ Harry hissed back carefully, the large, bountiful contentment still filling him to the brim as he spoke in an ancient tongue to the dead of night.

_“Yessss… do not move, Harry…”_

And so he waited.

The bliss that wrapped around him did nothing to hold off the creeping chill, however, and soon Harry began to shake with it, even as he thought nothing other than obeying the demand. An owl hooted loudly from a tree overhead, and the moon’s silvery tendrils slipped out from behind a cloud to bathe his face in light; revealing his flushed, slack features and blown pupils.

The next thing Harry felt was nothing like the sensation he’d been caressed with as he had made his way through the wood; a hot knife of anger suddenly pierced his mind, familiar and blistering all at once and Harry gasped, reeling back with the intensity of it.

Panic that had been shackled until now came slamming back to him again with the force of a herd of hippogriffs.

What was happening? Why was he here? What _possessed_ him to walk so far away from safety, from Hermione’s carefully constructed wards?

 _“Tell me, Harry…”_ the hissing sounded once again, this time spluttering with agitation but no less alluring. _“Tell me, who do you run from? Who has fate marked as your… equal? Tell me, away from our shared tongue…”_

And even though every single fibre of his being told him _NO,_ told him that answering that question would have dire, deadly consequences, he felt an involuntary whisper slip from his lips…

“Voldemort…”

Glee ( _rage, desire, insanity)_ gripped his mind like a dose of the Cruciatus Curse; it brought Harry crashing to his knees in the dirt and decaying leaves, one hand holding himself up off the frigid ground. Another demented laugh peeled through his mind, much, much louder and twice as sinister as before, and suddenly Harry realised what he had done, realised what all of this meant and finally realised that this was it, this was the end.

He had never felt so ashamed and frightened all at once in his entire life.

A deafening _crack_ echoed through the clearing at the edge of the forest, and all Harry could do was stare, horrified, at the ground under his fingers as he felt a deadly, suffocating presence dominate the space in a matter of seconds; an aura so black and threatening it froze the air in his lungs and had birds flapping from their places in the trees nearby, fleeing in the wake of the new arrival.

Harry kept his gaze cast low. He daren’t look up, because that would make all of this _real._

Before long, a pair of stark, bony white feet crossed into his peripheral. He could make out the hem of a black robe pooling behind the figure stood before him, but he was still frozen, his hand fisting on the ground; _seeing those blood-coloured eyes would validate everything._ He wasn’t ready to deal with the reality of his traitorous, malleable mind.

The decision was made for him.

Like a puppet on strings, Harry felt his body begin to rise. His arms were forced down by his sides and he eventually rose to the point where his toes were levitating an inch from the ground, but still he didn’t look up.

Again, that was taken out of his hands.

A long, spindly finger eased under his chin and tipped his face up.

Emerald eyes met with sanguine.

And a smirk so evil, so _insane_ split that white, serpentine skull that Harry felt all of the colour drain out of his face; he was simply lost for words, unable to draw his horrified eyes away from Voldemort’s arresting face now they’d been drawn there.

 _“Harry Potter… we meet again…”_ Voldemort’s breathed in parseltongue across his face, eliciting a sharp, confusing spark of _warmth_ deep in Harry’s chest, despite everything, despite his inevitable demise.

The finger under his chin slid along his jaw until the Dark Lord’s hand fully cupped the side of his face, sharp nails biting into the soft skin behind his ear, his skeletal hand covering Harry’s racing pulse.

Harry felt sweat beading at his brow and swallowed when the man’s forefinger ran up the side of his neck. It was the waiting he couldn’t abide by; _what was Voldemort doing?_

“You did well to follow my instructions Harry; this pleases Lord Voldemort,” the darkest wizard of their age spoke again, this time in English, the susurrus carrying much further than should be physically possible in the wide clearing.

 _“Why would I care what pleases you?! And what is this, don’t you want a fair dual? Don’t you want to fight me?”_ Harry found the words quite suddenly tumbling unbidden and angry from his mouth, shocked at his own daring and explosive temper, even now.

But in the next second he was stunned to realise that he’d hissed it all in _parseltongue_.

And instead of provoking Voldemort, the Dark Lord’s red, feline eyes were overtaken with that same suffocating glee that Harry had experienced not ten minutes before, lancing pain through his scar as another wicked smile twisted the man’s cruel, near-white lips.

_“Yessss Harry, yessss! You are versed in the art of the ancient language of the snakes; how… considerate… of you to grant Lord Voldemort someone else to talk to... but I digress. We must leave.”_

_“Leave?! What do you mean—”_ Harry started, feeling bewildered panic bubble up his chest like bile.Voldemort's long-fingered hand clenched tightly against Harry's face, his otherworldly eyes narrowing with unrestrained impatience. 

_“Be quiet now, Harry Potter. Be still. How thrilling it is to be reunited once again with what is mine…”_

Harry couldn’t seem to stop himself speaking back in parseltongue; like as if his brain was stuck a feedback loop, or as if his mouth couldn’t form words in English when faced with a snake personified. He felt himself let out a long, bewildered hiss at Voldemort’s words instead, deciding that inarticulate hissing in that moment was preferable to speaking in the Dark Lord’s favoured tongue.

A wand was quite suddenly pressed up to his throat, and Harry gasped and writhed as he felt it spark with raw, malignant power against his skin.

Was this it, then? Was this how it was supposed to end for Harry Potter?

He thought of Hermione, alone in their tent, asleep and completely unaware of how badly Harry had ruined everything. _How_ he had allowed himself to be drawn under an elusive spell and lead right out of their wards in the middle of the night was beyond his comprehension, and it made him feel violently sick.

Excited red eyes bored intently into his green ones, a flash of white teeth showing through another malicious grin; and then Voldemort’s wand illuminated from under Harry’s chin, bathing the two men standing close in a deep red and only serving to make the Dark Lord’s gaunt face look twice as menacing.

Harry closed his eyes, his jaw set and his body giving into a huge, reverberating tremble of fear.

Before blackness claimed the Boy-Who-Lived, he had enough sense of mind to think that the colour of the killing curse was _wrong,_ somehow.

His eyes rolled back into his head, and he was on the periphery of unconsciousness when he heard it, like a possessive, hissing endearment echoing through his very soul…

_“Mine…”_

When it came, the blackness was absolute.

                                                                         

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to hell for this.
> 
> That wraps up part one. This will be a three-part story and you should expect the next chapter to be along soon(ish). (Edit: I know it's been a little longer than expected, but part two is almost done. I'd give it another month - sorry about that!) 
> 
> Inspired by the work from many wonderful writers out there, including but not limited to ObsidianPen, ansketil, ladyoflilacs and Apuzzlingprince. I love you all!
> 
> (Just so you're aware, I've had to enable comment moderation because I've had a few trolls decide to comment idiotic things. Don't let that put you off leaving one though; I love hearing your feedback! I don't want to have to disable anonymous viewing/commenting, because many of you wonderful creatures don't have accounts.. It's just the select few ruining it!)


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